“Here’s the deal. Watch everything that Taylor writes down. If he misses anything, if he misses one tomato, you tell the captain and you take his job.”
“And what if he gets everything right, Chef?”
“Then there’s no use for you here.”
Z turned and walked back over to the line, started checking on the next course’s dishes.
Taylor leaned in toward me, tidying his station. “Why did you get us into that?” he said.
“I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” I said.
He shook his head. “Well, you meant to do something,” he said.
He dropped the tomatoes into the trash.
“He does this every few nights. Threatens his regular staff with someone new, makes them work a little harder for their job. But there is no way he’s actually giving you my job.”
His station was spotless, ready for the next rush of dinner returns.
“I was just promoted to trash too,” he said.
“That’s something you get promoted to?”
“It’s not my strength. But if you want to cook for him eventually . . .”
“Trash is the path?”
He nodded. “Trash is the path.”
“So, the idea is that you’re writing down what people don’t eat?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you ask way too many questions?”
“Yes, they have. And I totally understand if you don’t want to answer them, considering that I’m now the competition.”
He smiled, my honesty
having warmed him. Imagine that!
“Noting for Chef what is left behind helps him ascertain whether it’s presentation that isn’t working or the item itself, so he can adjust accordingly. It’s pretty important. At least as far as he is concerned.”
“Weird. They haven’t done this at the other places I’ve worked.”
“They don’t do most of what Z does anywhere else,” Taylor said. “He’s fastidious.”
Taylor nodded, proud to work there. And I started to feel conflicted that he was trying to help me out, even though I was trying to take his job.
I suddenly wanted to do something else.
“So maybe we can figure out a way to convince him he needs two people to do it,” I said.
He laughed. “No, it’s you or me.”
“I was suggesting an alternative.”
“No offense,” he said. “But the alternative is that you’re ending your little regime at 28 right when it’s getting started.”
The thing about working in a restaurant kitchen, even under intense pressure, is that it gets really quiet, really quickly. The only sound is the noises of the kitchen, its own life-form, stainless-steel pots and fire and bubbling water, finding their rhythm together. Especially a restaurant like 28. The waiters and line cooks move like a machine. I didn’t know how I’d do on trash, but I realized it was a good thing my career as a waiter here had been short-lived, or I would have been fired before the night was out. The rapid movements, the heavy plates lining arms. Getting hit by Z on one side and the snooty guests on the other.